“So you see, I have to ‘box clever’ as the saying goes. I cannot be identified as being at the closure of a case, for example. You know how the press have reported it in the past—that I have been involved in an investigation. That’s why I could only go so far with Vivian and Archie, why I could not go to challenge Jimmy Robertson. I’m worried enough at how reports of Sally Coombes’ suicide might look in tomorrow’s papers.”
“What don’t they like about it—your job? You’re doing something decent and good, not like some people—and it’s to do with justice, after all, and helping put wrong things right.”
“First of all, it’s the danger inherent in the work—and we know it carries a risk, even though we are careful enough. And then there’s the fact that I am likely to come into contact with a criminal element of society.”
“But if it’s dangerous, what do they think of you joining the Auxiliary Ambulance Service, as a volunteer? That’s blimmin’ dangerous too! Or haven’t you told them?”
“I’ve declared my involvement in volunteer work with the ambulance service—but that’s seen as me doing my bit, as a citizen, and we’ve all been called upon to do our voluntary service, haven’t we? And they don’t see that as dangerous at the present time. They don’t even mind the fact that I spend several days per week in London, though that may have to change.”
“These people make me ill—can’t see to the ends of their noses. And what about little Anna, bless her?”
“She’s very happy. She adores Dad and Brenda, and even Lady Rowan and Lord Julian have started treating her as if she were the grandchild they always wanted.”
“Can’t they speak up for you?”
“They provided my first references.”
“And I suppose there’s a pen-pusher somewhere who doesn’t want to feel pushed around by the upper classes.”
“Something of that order.”
“Blimey.” Billy finished his tea and placed his mug on the tray. “So what are you going to do?”
“I’m going to keep my nose clean, so to speak. I can continue my work, though I will have to be careful, not do anything to draw attention to myself. I have never liked it on those occasions when my name has appeared either as a special witness in published court proceedings or the newspapers—I’ve tried to remain as anonymous as possible. But I admit, in terms of securing new business, it’s useful. Anyway, a hearing has been set for September. I’ll have to go before a panel, which includes a special judge, to state my case for becoming Anna’s adoptive parent. I almost dare not hope—”
“Oh, miss, it’ll all come out in the wash—that’s what my old mum used to say. Just you wait and see.” Billy moved to Maisie’s side and put an arm around her, pulling her to him as she wept. “You have a good old cry. It’ll do you good, what with everything that’s gone on lately, and seeing Sally Coombes top herself today. Let your tears fall, and then come out fighting. It’ll be all right.”
“Oh, I hope so, Billy. I do hope so. I don’t want to lose her.”
“I know, miss. I know.”
“I love Anna, Billy. I love her as if she were my own.”
“But she is—she is yours. Anyone who sees you two together knows that—she belongs with you. If your Dr. Blanche were here, I reckon he would say she’s always belonged to you.”
Maisie slumped down onto one of the wicker lawn chairs without even entering her garden flat in Holland Park. There were telephone calls to be made, for her day’s work was not yet done, and she was anxious to find out if Tim was improving. Every time she thought of her beloved godson, she felt her breath catch. She wondered how he might be feeling, now that the enormity of his undertaking—and the loss of his best friend—was in all likelihood beginning to come into focus. She allowed herself another five minutes outside, before opening the French doors wide for the fresh evening air to blow through. She removed her jacket and hat, and placed her document case and shoulder bag on top of the desk in the corner. Once again she had left the office without her gas mask.
She was just about to sink into the armchair when the telephone began to ring. She lifted the receiver.
“Tante Maisie! Thank goodness! Where is everyone? I can’t find my parents or my brothers—have they all trotted off on holiday?”
“Tom! Tom! I am so relieved to hear your voice. Your mother and father have been worried sick about you—we’ve had news reports of RAF fighting over the Channel, and there was no word from you.”
“Sorry about that—we weren’t allowed to use the telephone during the evacuation—and it’s all right, I wasn’t flying. Well, I was, but not on ops. Where is everyone?”
Maisie realized it would fall to her to break the news to Tom about his brother—his bravery, and how he now carried the wounds of war. She told Tom the story from beginning to end, and then answered his questions, one after the other in quick succession revealing his fear and concern.
“I’ll put in for compassionate leave. I can’t stay here, flying all over the place like some gnat without a purpose—I’m coming home.”
“Wait until you’ve spoken to your parents,” said Maisie. “Tim will be at the hospital in Hastings for a few weeks, I’m sure—they have to wait to see if any infection emerges. Everyone’s at Chelstone, staying with me—it’s not too far a drive to Hastings from there, and there’s the train too.”
“Can you fit in another, if I can get away?”
“Of course I can, Tom—you’ll have to bunk in with Tarquin though.”
“For once I won’t mind his snoring. I’ll let you know when I’m coming, Tante Maisie. But I’ll try for Friday.”
“I hope to see you then, Tom—and do take care.”
“I’m up in Northumberland—shouldn’t really tell you that, should I? They put us pilots into three big groups, and we’re all over the place—there’s us newish boys, who have to get our practice in, and then there’s the next group, which is a mix, so everyone gets experience flying with more seasoned chaps, and then there are the pilots with the hours on them—they’re a year or so older than me, the old salts! I started flying an old Tiger Moth—doing the sort of aerobatics that Uncle James would have done in the last war. I kept thinking of him, actually.” He paused for breath, and to put more coins in the slot. “Then they put me on this American aeroplane, called a Harvard. I thought it was a lovely kite—even had automatic wheels up. But now I’m really excited, because the very good news is that I’m transferring to RAF Hawkinge next month—they’re moving me into Hurricanes. I’ll have had about ten or twelve hours flying by the time I’m on ops over to France, which isn’t bad as I think some of the men coming up after me will have less, what with one thing and another. And Hawkinge is in Kent, so you’ll see something of me when I’ve a day or two off.”
Maisie nodded, as if Priscilla’s eldest son were in the room. “Telephone your parents at the Dower House this evening—they should be there in an hour or so. Let them know you’re doing well—they will be so relieved.”
“Will do, Tante Maisie. I want to know how my brother is—he’ll get better when he knows I’m coming. The way this family is going, we’ll make a good team of one-armed bandits—I’d better be careful!”
“Yes, you had. Now then, call your parents and I’ll see you at the week’s end. You can tell me then what a one-armed bandit is!”
Maisie replaced the receiver, knowing that Tom’s nonstop light banter at the end of the call was his way of assimilating his brother’s plight, of trying to appear as if everything was normal. All the emotions that Priscilla and Douglas had experienced since they learned that Tim was missing would have hit Tom at once, with relief coming on top of fear, and—she thought—some anger toward his sibling under the surface, in the place where deep brotherly love resided. Every member of the family was affected—that was how it was. And now Tom was being posted to RAF Hawkinge. Northumberland seemed a lot safer. They’re moving me into Hurricanes. Maisie shook her head. It felt as
if they had all been moved into a hurricane, right into the eye of the storm.
She went into the kitchen, took a bottle of white wine from her new refrigerator—she still had not become used to the intermittent running noise—and poured herself a glass. She stood for a moment, looking out of the kitchen window across the garden, to her clematis still in bud, and then to the barrage balloons in the sky. Soon she would have to think about closing the doors and drawing the blackout curtains. She thought of Tim, looking back at his homecoming, the image of him being taken from the boat on a stretcher, and the terrible wounds to his arm. And she remembered the description Sylvia Preston, the WAAF, had given her—of driving her ambulance onto Salisbury Plain and picking up the bodies of young men who had failed their first parachute jump. She pictured Tom stationed at an aerodrome in Kent, which—it now seemed—would be on the front line of the invasion, if it came. And then Anna. Anna. How could she ever keep her safe? She sighed. Her heart was heavy. It was time for the next call.
She had no need to look up the number before dialing.
“MacFarlane!” The greeting was as brusque as ever.
“Robbie, when will you answer the telephone as if there’s a human being on the other end of the line, and not a charging bull elephant,” said Maisie.
Robert MacFarlane, formerly a senior officer with Scotland Yard’s Special Branch and now working with the Secret Service as a linchpin between the two, laughed when he heard Maisie’s voice.
“It’s been a while, has it not, hen? And to what do I owe this intrusion into my first wee dram of the day?”
“Bit late for you, isn’t it, Robbie? From my garden the sun is already over the yardarm.”
“I’m a-mending of my ways,” replied MacFarlane. “That sounds almost poetic, doesn’t it? Now then, seeing as you didn’t mention taking me out for a nice four-course luncheon tomorrow, I take it this is a business call.”
“It is, yes.”
“Come on then, tell me what’s going on.”
“I could be wrong, Robbie, but I think I know of the whereabouts of an enemy agent—and even if he’s not German, I think he’s someone who’s probably not on our side.”
“I see. Pray tell,” said Robbie, his tone now weighted with the gravity of her news.
Maisie described her fears, and her reservations. “I just didn’t think it was wise to wait any longer to tell you.”
“No, you’re right there. I’ll get on it. Don’t go into your office tomorrow, and keep those two employees of yours out of the way.”
“Yes. I’ll telephone them both immediately.” She paused, curling the telephone cord around the fingers of her left hand. “Robbie—he’s a nice man. Go easy on him.”
“If the creeping vines are innocent, he won’t even know we’ve been there. I’ll put my little wee white gloves on for him.”
“But not your white boxing gloves.”
There was silence on the line before MacFarlane spoke again.
“My nephew didn’t get out of Dunkirk, Maisie.”
“I’m so sorry, Robbie. Truly I am. But please remember, I could be wrong about the man.”
“I know you, Maisie, so in my gut, I doubt it. Now then, stay away tomorrow—treat yourself to an outing. Go home to the country to see that little girl of yours.”
Maisie was grateful for a chill in the air as she walked along the Embankment toward Scotland Yard. Having confirmed that Sandra would not be required in the office, she had arranged to meet Billy outside the police headquarters at half past nine and instructed him not to go to the office first, as she had just remembered that some essential plumbing work would be in progress.
She had slept little the previous night. Priscilla had called late in the evening to let her know that Tim was weak, but improving, and had been awake long enough to talk briefly about Gordon’s death. He had become distressed and was given a sedative. Andrew Dene had paid another visit, and estimated that it would be another two weeks before Tim would be discharged. He counseled against Tim returning to London, as fresh air and the chance to begin walking each day would help with balance and well-being. Priscilla and Douglas would therefore be looking for a property to rent in Kent, and ideally as close to the village as possible. “We’re family, Maisie. We all need to be near those we love—don’t you think?”
At Scotland Yard, Caldwell took Maisie’s statement, starting with the day Phil Coombes came to her office to talk to her about his son.
“Do you think the man knew about his brother-in-law and the paint at that point?” said Caldwell.
“He knew what sort of man Jimmy Robertson was. He knew he was a criminal—but remember, they had served together, had gone over the top into battle together. They were connected by the horrors they’d seen, and by the fact that they both came home. I believe that as time went on—and of course, Phil married Sally Robertson—Phil did his utmost to turn a blind eye to the way Jimmy Robertson operated. And Robertson looked after the family, providing many little extras that make life easier. I believe Phil at some point began to doubt Jimmy, and he had to face up to the reality that the man is very dangerous indeed. He couldn’t go straight to Jimmy about Joe, because he knew, deep down, that Jimmy cared only about number one. So, he came to me. Phil Coombes came to me only to say he was worried about his son. And if I found Joe safe and well—all to the better. But if not, then there was a detachment—it wouldn’t be Phil who shopped Jimmy, it would be me. If luck held, Joe would come back, everyone would keep their mouths shut and life would go on. And as far as Phil and Sally Coombes were concerned, Jimmy had done more than provide those little extras I mentioned—he made sure both Archie and Joe were in reserved occupations. Vivian did well for herself, but there was always pressure to do anything she could for Uncle Jimmy—and that was probably true of the whole family.”
Caldwell nodded. Maisie thought she had never seen him look so drawn. “Detective Inspector Murphy has brought in the painting crew, and Freddie Mayes has been charged with accessory to murder, following his confession today. He was acting on the instructions of Jimmy Robertson, who—it transpires—showed his face, along with Mike Yates, at their lodgings in Whitchurch. They wanted Joe to be quiet about his headaches, and—according to Yates—they told young Joe that it would be very bad form for his parents to know he wasn’t pulling his weight in the job. We’re getting enough to put Robertson away, and we hope for a long, long time. He has been brought in and is cooling his heels in a cell, though his brief is coming in to see him soon—the one who has had a fair bit of luck in allowing him to slide off our shovel in the past. Anyway, he’s not been charged, but we have time. I just didn’t want him to go anywhere. Not that getting away to the Continent is a good idea at the moment.”
“I see—and what about the Bank of England?”
“Yes, that. All very interesting, I must say.” He shook his head and gave a satisfied chuckle. “Young Archie had what he thought was a bright idea when he went down to see his brother, and it came to his attention that there was money in the area, quite literally. He considered the possibilities and thought he might be able to make himself a lieutenant in his uncle’s business if he had a potentially lucrative plan. He was scared of Robertson, but decided that if he could make himself more valuable, he’d be safer, and his opinions would carry more weight. He’s admitted he tried to get Joe involved, but Joe didn’t want to have anything to do with any cockeyed plans involving robbery. Now, Jimmy Robertson likes a good idea resulting in great sums of cash coming his way as much as the next villain, but he also knows when it becomes a nonstarter. He considered Archie’s plan, looked at it from all angles, and then thought better of it.”
“It distracted me for a while, I must admit—though I always felt it might turn out to be important. My mistake,” said Maisie.
“Oh, it could end up being important—as another nail in Jimmy Robertson’s coffin. We know he eventually dismissed the plans, but at first he couldn’t ignore inf
ormation about large sums of money going to and fro between London and Hampshire. Robertson and his boys were interested enough to put some quite detailed plans on paper and ask Archie to get more information before deciding the risks outweighed the benefits—and those incriminating papers were found in Archie’s gaff with Robertson’s scrawl across every page, along with his signature because he loved his name so much. Bit of a narcissist, is Robertson, and those papers signify intention, which is important, because he’s been up for armed robbery more than once—so you might say they’re a tool. And while we’re about it—I’ve never known a lad of Archie Coombes’ age to put so much into where he dosses down. This lad had his digs decked out like he was a matinee idol.”
“I think he just wanted something more out of life,” said Maisie.
“Don’t we all?” replied Caldwell.
They discussed the revenue Robertson and Yates had brought in from the business of painting commercial buildings with the diluted fire retardant, and the fact that most were owned by people coerced into agreeing to the work by Robertson. The racket amounted to a pretty sum for the Robertson coffers. Maisie made a further statement, recounting how she had witnessed two lorries unloading and reloading stores on a country road close to the aerodrome where Teddy Wickham was stationed. It was not firm evidence, but enough to support deeper investigation. At the point where Caldwell began to shuffle his pages of notes, with only a few more questions left for Maisie to answer, there was a knock at the door, and a uniformed policeman entered.
“Oh sorry, guv, didn’t know you had a visitor,” said the policeman. “I thought you’d finished taking a statement in one of the interview rooms and was back up here on your own.”
“I can take a statement here, where Miss Dobbs is concerned—she’s one of our special advisers.”
“I’m just going round collecting for DC Able, sir. To send something to his mum and dad. They’re having a memorial service at their local church, and a few of the lads are going, especially on account of his dad.”
To Die but Once Page 28
