To Die but Once

by Jacqueline Winspear

  “Morning, miss,” said Billy, entering the office.

  “Oh, hello Billy. Everything all right?”

  “Our Billy is still spending most of the day in bed, but that’s to be expected. He’s received orders to be back at barracks on Monday for a medical exam, so the doctor can look at that wound and tell him whether he’s well enough for service, or if he gets signed off for a bit longer. And Monday isn’t many days to go, so I said to Doreen that he should try to be up and about today. Get Margaret Rose to nag him a bit to take her to the park when she comes home from school. He thinks the world of his little sister, and I know it’s probably a bit odd, a man of his age having a young sister, but it would do him the power of good, I think, to go out to the park for a bit of a play.”

  Maisie looked over toward Billy.

  “What? What did I just say?” asked Billy.

  “You just referred to Billy as a man. Not a boy, and not a lad—you called him a man. And I think you’re quite right—playing with a child will do him the power of good. You don’t have much time to lighten the load on his shoulders.”

  “I’d like to see mine lightened, miss.” Billy shook his head. “I signed the papers for Bobby last night. That’s one thing his brother said to me, he said, ‘Dad, if our Bobby is in the RAF as a mechanic, the chances are they can’t send him anywhere they can send me.’ And he reckoned his brother would be a lot safer on the ground, working on aircraft engines, so I signed it, and even his mother said I should. Bobby is now as happy as a sand boy, which is a mercy, as that face was getting as long as a week, and there’s only so many miserable faces you can bear at the dinner table. Thank our lucky stars for Margaret Rose—she’s our gem, truly she is.” He exhaled, and continued relating family business. “So, you could say I’ve got two men now.” He nodded toward the window. “And what’s Farmer Miles up to out there? Put in a row of potatoes yet?”

  Maisie laughed. “No, but he’s certainly trying to better Kew Gardens. I’m amazed he has managed to do so much—remember how that used to look? Then the last tenant tried to make an improvement, but it took Mr. Miles to really change that yard into a very small smallholding!”

  “He had some operations on his legs, but he’s got his strength back, I would imagine.”

  “How come you and Sandra know so much about Walter Miles, and I didn’t even know he lived there until a week ago? Who is he?”

  “I was told by the woman at the dairy shop across the square, that she’d seen him quite a few times before he moved into the flat. He’d come in for some odds and ends—and then one day he told her he wanted to live in the square. She said he had been looking for a certain sort of rooms, with both a front and back entrance and a small yard, like the one he’s got, so it all came right for him. He’d just come back from living in the south of France, apparently—he returned to see his doctor. The stairs at the front aren’t too bad for him, and of course he can just let himself out the back, if he wants to. I’ve heard he’s a lecturer at the university, over on Malet Street.”

  “Really? Then he’s probably Dr. Miles. What does he teach?”

  “Oh, I think you’d have to ask Sandra that one.”

  “I just don’t know how I missed all this.”

  “You weren’t paying attention—you rush in and rush off, and he’s not exactly out there all the time waiting, is he? He keeps to himself, though he’s been out the front a few times when I’ve come in, and he’s always friendly. Interested in people who live around the square, passes the time of day and then goes on his way, or back downstairs.”

  Maisie shook her head. “Well I never. Anyway, I want to talk to you about the Coombes case.”

  “We’re close, aren’t we?”

  Maisie nodded. “Yes, in a way, we are. I know the people, and I think I know the why—but bringing them to justice will be difficult, not least because the solid evidence is proving hard to nail down. I have lots of pieces, but making them fit is quite another thing.”

  “What do you think we should do next?”

  “I’m leaving for Kent later today—taking Mrs. Partridge down to Chelstone, and then tomorrow we’re driving along the coast from Rye to Ramsgate, stopping at every possible place where Tim and his friend might come in with the boat, which will be tricky, considering all the barbed wire laid across the beaches. But my money is still on Rye. Admittedly there’s that long journey along the River Rother estuary to the Channel, but it’s home for the boys, where they’ve always sailed from together.”

  “And the case?”

  “I think it should stew in its own juices for a few days, but with a little help—I’m going along to see Phil and Sally Coombes in a minute, try to get them before opening time. I’m sure that somewhere, there’s a connection with those Robertsons.”

  “There is, but not probably what you’re looking for,” said Billy.

  “What do you mean?” said Maisie.

  “I made a note of it so I’d remember to tell you before you went out today, and I only reminded myself yesterday evening.”

  “Go on, Billy.” Maisie moved to the large table and sat down, pulling back another chair for her assistant to be seated alongside her. She unfurled the case map, and brought the tin filled with colored crayons closer.

  Billy placed his notebook on the table and unfolded a press cutting. He ran a palm across the scrap of newspaper, making it as flat as possible before pushing it toward Maisie.

  She looked down at a row of faded faces, young men in uniform, smiling at the camera, as if sharing a joke at the photographer’s expense.

  “Are you in this?” asked Maisie.

  “No, not me—never one to get my name in the paper. This was sent to me by my mum in the war, because one of my cousins was in the photograph. Here, you can see, it says, ‘London Boys Leave for France to Take On the Hun.’ They’re all lined up, waiting to get on the boat. See? That’s Arthur, my cousin—Mum and her sister, my aunt, said we always favored brothers more than cousins. He was in the artillery though. I was showing Billy my war photographs last night—pictures of me and the lads I was with, over in France. I was trying to sort of get him to talk a bit, letting him know I understood how things are, when you’re soldiering.”

  Maisie was already running her finger along the line of men. “Who am I looking for? There’s someone here you want me to see, isn’t there?”

  “Right there, miss. You have to take account of time don’t you, but I think that’s Phil Coombes—look. If you can imagine Archie—he’s the dead spitting image of his dad, when he was his age. That’s what made me stop and look again.”

  “It’s hardly surprising he was in the army though—there’s more, isn’t there?”

  “You ever seen a photo of Jimmy Robertson?”

  “Not recently, no,” said Maisie.

  “I was a bit late today because I had to go down to see my mate, the one who works for the Express. We went down to the newspaper storage place, and we found a picture of Robertson from a few year ago, when he was hauled up for armed robbery and the beak let him off. You see, I’d seen more recent photos in the papers, and it seemed to me that the bloke right there could be him. And it was him—there, next to Phil Coombes. In the artillery together.”

  “And someone like Jimmy Robertson doesn’t forget anyone—because the anyone in question could be useful later.” Maisie looked at the grainy cutting again, taking care not to tear the thinning folds. “Can I keep this?”

  “It’s all yours, miss—I never wanted it in the first place. When Mum sent this to me, she wrote in the letter, ‘How come you can’t get into the papers and make me famous on the street?’ Which was a bit rich, if you ask me.”

  “I’ll bring it back, Billy—this is part of your family’s history, after all. You might change your mind.” She placed the photograph in her bag. “Now then, I’m off to see Phil,” said Maisie. “Any luck with those new inquiries?”

  “Two on the go, miss. One woman t
hinks she’s just married an officer in the navy who’s married to someone else, and another who only really wanted some company, I reckon. She asked me about her missing watch and necklace, but I found them for her before twenty minutes was up—then she wanted me to stay for a cup of tea and insisted on paying me for the time—I’ll put it in petty cash. She was just lonely, I reckon. Sad, eh?”

  Maisie nodded and passed a crayon to Billy. “Would you do the honors and bring us up-to-date?” She tapped it onto the desk in front of him and gave a half-smile, knowing he was put out that she intended to see Phil and Sally Coombes on her own. “Look, I know you want to be helping with this case—but as soon as Jimmy Robertson’s name came up, I knew we had to proceed with care.” She sighed. “Billy, you almost died a few years ago, and even if you can’t remember because you were in a coma, I remember the effect it had on Doreen. I can’t risk that again, which is why I want you to take charge of the new cases. Just for now.”

  Billy shook his head. “But you could be walking right into danger, and you’ve got little Anna to consider. I know she’s only your evacuee, but there’s more to it than that. We’ve all got people to take account of, but this is what we do, after all—and haven’t you always said we’ve got to get to work when truth comes to us for help? Or something like that, anyway.”

  “Oh, touché, Billy—touché!” She paused and dropped the crayon. “All right, come on. Let’s get over there to see Phil and Sally—but take my lead, as I don’t want to show too much of my hand. Just enough. Then we’ll let it simmer, like I said we would. All right?”

  Billy grinned. “Ready when you are, miss.”

  Phil Coombes came down from the upstairs flat the third time Billy rapped on the door.

  “Thought you’d all left home, mate,” said Billy.

  “Oh good morning, Miss Dobbs, Billy.” He looked from one to the other. “Got any news for us?”

  “I’m sorry, but we’ve a few more questions, if that’s all right,” said Maisie, stepping into the deserted public bar when Phil Coombes stood back to allow them to enter. The smell of stale smoke and the yeasty odor of yesterday’s beer was overpowering. Dust motes danced and settled in a shaft of sunlight slanting through the window to the dark stained floor.

  Coombes led the way up the narrow staircase to the flat above, and called out to his wife. “Sally—got company. Miss Dobbs and Mr. Beale. About Joe.”

  Sally Coombes stood in the doorway to the kitchen, drying her hands on a tea towel. “Oh, hello—come in. I’ve just put the kettle on.”

  “What time does Vivian start work in the morning?” asked Maisie, taking the seat proffered by Phil Coombes.

  “Half past eight, as a rule.” He sat down opposite Maisie. “Sometimes it’s earlier. Usually, though, when the women finish their day, the men telephonists come on for the night shift. She’s a clever girl—top marks in her civil service exams.”

  Maisie engaged Phil in small talk about Vivian’s prospects, until Sally had placed cups of tea on the table and taken a seat. She paused, stirring her tea and taking a sip before speaking again.

  “I want to go back over Joe’s apprenticeship, if I may. How did he find out about the job at Yates? Wasn’t it someone you knew who put in a word for him?”

  Phil Coombes glanced at his wife, then at his hands as he answered. “It was through Archie, who found out from his mate, Teddy Wickham.”

  “And how did Teddy know about the opening?”

  “Can’t say as I remember now—but must’ve been through someone he knew who does business with Yates. Or a relative. Teddy was looking out for Joe, and thought it would be a good start for him, to learn the trade—like I said before. Being in a trade sets you up, and he did well to get in at Yates.” He drummed his fingers on the table.

  “Right, yes, I know you wanted him to become a skilled craftsman. Are you sure you can’t recall who gave Teddy the tip-off?”

  Coombes shook his head and turned to his wife. “Sal—can you remember?”

  Sally Coombes shook her head. “Can’t say as I do.”

  Maisie continued. “I remember you saying that Joe had changed—when do you think that started?”

  Coombes looked at his wife again, as if her face would jog his memory. She raised her eyebrows and sighed.

  “I reckon it was after he’d been put on this new job a month or so. Before the headaches, if I’m remembering rightly,” said Sally.

  “Nah, the headaches came before. Don’t you remember me saying, ‘Joe’s been very quiet when he gets on the blower.’” He looked at Billy, as if the father of sons would understand. “Then when he came home one Saturday afternoon, he didn’t want to go out much. Said it was being in the country—made him not like all the noise out there.”

  “And what about his wish to give up his job because he wanted to work on a farm?”

  Coombes rolled his eyes. “Oh that business. Might’ve known that would come up. Joe had this idea he wanted to be a farmer. Said he’d been offered an apprenticeship by a local bloke with a farm. All on the up and up, it was supposed to be.” He stared at Maisie. “Give up a good job to be planting turnips? The boy was off his rocker.”

  “By all accounts he loved the country,” said Maisie. “You said so yourself when we first spoke.”

  “No, I told him he had to stay with Yates. You don’t give up a good job.” Phil Coombes looked at the clock, and pushed back his chair. “Getting on for opening time.”

  “Just another minute or two, Mr. Coombes—it’s important,” said Maisie. She cast her gaze from Coombes to his wife. “What would really have been the consequence of Joe leaving his job at Yates?”

  “I don’t know what you mean. Mind you, there’s always a consequence of giving up work. Joe remembered how it was when he was younger—grown men on the streets begging for money to keep their families fed. Lining up for work, time and again—saw it myself, and we vowed that was not going to happen to our boys.” Sally Coombes looked at her husband.

  “And I knew the consequence of going into the army,” added Coombes. “I saw enough myself in the last war. You did as well.” He brought his attention to Billy, then Maisie. “There’s consequences your mum and dad know about that you don’t, when you’re still wet behind the ears. And Sally and me, we knew it was our job to steer our children on the right path. Ours learned how to put in a day’s work, and they knew they weren’t going to fight any wars, not if I had anything to do with it. Joe’s job was reserved, and so was Archie’s. Vivian wouldn’t be in uniform either.”

  Maisie nodded, as Coombes took account of the hour again, shifting in his chair as if to render it obvious he was checking the clock. “One minute, then we’ll let you get on, Phil. Do you know how Mike Yates managed to obtain the contract for painting aerodromes? And have you any idea about the source of the paint Joe’s crew were using?”

  “How would I know?” said Phil Coombes.

  Maisie came to her feet. Billy followed her lead. “I wondered about it, that’s all.” Again she turned from Phil to Sally Coombes. “You see, if my son were being killed by a certain substance, I would want to know exactly where it came from.” She turned to leave.

  “Now, Miss Dobbs, I know he wasn’t feeling well, but—”

  “The paint was toxic,” said Maisie. “It was poisoning his blood and affecting his brain. Joe knew it—and he knew, if only by instinct, that he had to get away from it. And the only person who truly listened to him was a farmer, a man who had lost his son in the last war.”

  As they reached the door, Maisie turned back. “I’m sorry to be so blunt, but that is the way it stands. I am trying to find out who killed Joe, and I have to do all I can to turn not only stones, to see what lies underneath, but in this case I have to move boulders. The truth can hide in some very troubling places, Mr. Coombes, and you asked me to find out the truth.”

  “I know about war, Miss Dobbs. I fought in the war.”

  “Yes, I’m aware
you were in Flanders. As was Billy, and I was a nurse in a casualty clearing station, so I know how it was.” She paused. “In fact, Billy showed me that newspaper cutting today—you were a local somebody for a short while, after appearing in the South London Press. How many of you came home, from the lads in that photograph?”

  “You had that photo?” said Coombes, his face registering surprise.

  “Arthur Beale. Artillery. Passchendaele, 1917. He was my cousin,” said Billy.

  “Oh blimey,” said Coombes. “I never knew.”

  “No need for you to have known. I’ve got a common name, and it’s not as if we talk about it, is it?”

  Coombes stared at the ground and nodded. “Not as if we do.” He looked up. “Only two of us came back, of the lads in that photograph,” said Coombes.

  “Yes, I already know,” said Maisie. “I’ll be in touch—and thank you, Mr. Coombes. Mrs. Coombes.”

  They began walking back to the office without speaking, until Billy broke the silence. “Not like you to be so hard on someone, miss. Never heard you talk like that to people grieving. Fair surprised me, it did.”

  “Sorry, Billy. There’s a time for everything, and this was a time when I needed to poke with a knife instead of a gentle touch with a fingertip.”

  “Why?”

  Maisie sighed. “Let’s just see what happens next. Then I’ll explain.” She stopped and turned to her assistant. “Trust me, Billy.”

  “Always have, miss. I always have. But what do you want me to do next?”

  Maisie began walking again. “There is something, before you start on the next three cases that came in. I want you to find out more about Teddy Wickham.”

  “What about him?”

  “His parents—mother’s maiden name, that sort of thing. Uncles, aunts, brothers, sisters. School. Best friends—though we know his very best friend is Archie Coombes.”

  “Right you are, miss. Good as done.”