She imagined sitting with him by the fireplace in his study at The Dower House. At first he would give the impression of leaving the decision up to her, yet as conversation progressed, he would show his hand. She was sure he would counsel her to broaden her horizons and accept a new challenge. So she would take on the persona of a spinster teacher, an educated woman on her own in the halls of academia--even if those halls were seen to be wanting by the standards of the more established Cambridge university community. In any case, it was too late to go back now, for she had signed official forms to the effect that she would not impart any aspect of her work to another, and that she would take anything she learned--good or bad--to her grave. And even though she was well aware that as one of His Majesty's subjects, she would be touched by the Official Secrets Act whether she signed it or not, her signature was her promise as much as her spoken word.
Entering her flat, she glanced at her watch. It was half past five, just enough time to make a cursory check on the new telephone she'd had installed several weeks ago. Tomorrow she would ask Billy--who had once worked as a telephone engineer--to conduct a more thorough investigation. She understood the need for surveillance of even the most trusted person working on a case, but the thought of her private conversations being subject to the ears of a Secret Service minion made her shudder.
At half past six, the doorbell signaled the arrival of her visitor. Maisie guessed that Sandra would be grateful for supper, so had prepared a hot soup with vegetables and pig's knuckle, and brought home a loaf of crusty bread, which she would serve with a rich slab of cheddar.
"Sandra, how lovely to see you again," said Maisie, as she opened the door and stood back to allow the young woman to enter. "Come on in, you know the way."
Sandra nodded, and gave a weak smile. "Thank you for seeing me, Miss Dobbs. I know you're really busy and--"
"Never too busy for you, Sandra. Just hang your coat on the stand there."
As the younger woman turned away to remove her coat, Maisie's heart sank. Billy's description of Sandra's appearance was woefully inadequate. The poor girl's black clothes seemed to hang on her, and her face was drawn and pale. Maisie knew the evening would not be an easy one--something serious had come to pass, and Sandra needed her help.
"Sit down, Sandra--here, try out my new sofa. It's really quite comfortable. The evening's cool, and it was so very close last night, wasn't it? In any case, the gas fire's on, and I've taken the liberty of preparing supper for us."
"That's very kind of you, Miss Dobbs." Sandra smoothed her skirt and sat down on the edge of the new sofa. "I didn't want you to go to any trouble."
"This was once your home, Sandra. I wanted it to be welcoming for you--and me, actually. I've only just returned to London following a few days in Kent. In fact, I only spend about four nights a week in town these days."
"Mr. Beale said you were down there. I sometimes wish I'd gone with the staff when they closed up Ebury Place, instead of staying in London."
"Oh, but you had an excellent reason, Sandra--you were engaged to be married, and your husband-to-be had found a good job." Maisie held up the sherry bottle. "A small one? I'm going to have a glass before we sit down to eat."
"That would be very nice, thank you."
Maisie poured two glasses of sherry, handed one to Sandra, and sat down on the armchair opposite the sofa. She lost no more time in getting to the point.
"There's something terribly wrong, Sandra. What is it, and how can I help you?"
As Sandra sipped the sherry, tears came to her eyes. She brushed them away and sat with both hands clutching the small glass.
"I'm a widow, Miss Dobbs."
"Oh, Sandra, my dear girl." Maisie set her glass on the table and came to her side; and though she instinctively wanted to put her arm around the distraught woman's shoulders, instead she remained close enough for Sandra to feel a caring presence, but not so close as to stifle her. Maisie calculated the poor girl was only twenty-four years of age, if that.
"What happened? I saw Eric only a few weeks ago, when I took my motor car into the garage for some repair work--it couldn't have been more than a month past." Choked with sudden grief, Maisie could barely finish the sentence.
"I buried him a fortnight ago. There was an accident at the garage. The man he worked for had a new customer with a few cars he wanted looked after--a well-to-do new customer, is all I can say--so he had Eric working all hours. Not that he was complaining, because we wanted to get into a flat on our own, instead of living in the loft above the garage, so we needed the overtime money. Even though it had been converted for living quarters, being up in that loft was still like living in a stable."
"How did the accident happen?"
"Eric was tired, very tired. He said that if he didn't finish the job on time, then his employer could easily find another bloke to replace him. They were both working hard, him and his boss, Reg Martin."
"Reg is a good man--diligent and honest. And Eric's work was first class."
"Anyway, this customer kept coming in and going on, saying he wanted the motors in double-quick time. I'm not sure of the story, but as far as I know, he'd bought them cheap, about six of them to start with, from posh people not being able to keep up because they'd run short of money--I suppose they sold the motor cars for whatever they could get. So after buying them up and getting them on the road looking nice and shiny, this man was selling them for more money somewhere else--he only wanted enough repairs done so money passed hands with no questions." She shrugged and wiped her eyes.
Maisie reached out and took Sandra's hand, allowing the stricken young woman to continue.
"It was all a funny business, really, but I know Reg was glad of the work--you can't turn anything down these days."
"What happened to Eric, Sandra?" asked Maisie.
She looked down, her eyes red-rimmed with tears. "They'd lifted the engine out of one of the motors, with a block and tackle, and Eric was leaning in under it. Then suddenly one of the chains went and the whole lot gave way. He didn't go quick, either. I was coming down the road when I heard the screams, heard Reg shouting out for help. Someone came running and went for the ambulance. I knew there and then that it was Eric, so I ran as fast as I could, and . . . " She shook her head as if to rid herself of the images in her head. "All I could do was hold his hand. I was just about able to reach in and . . . hold his hand. He bled to death." She leaned into Maisie's arms, and as Maisie rocked her until the keening subsided, she knew the image of Sandra's young husband's final moments would never leave her.
They sat for some time, before the younger woman sat up and apologized. "I'm sorry, Miss, I shouldn't--"
"Sandra, you've had a terrible shock. And you are grieving." Maisie thought quickly. She knew Sandra was in a difficult position. The loft accommodation came with Eric's job, and Sandra had not worked--except for helping Reg with his bookkeeping--since her marriage; there were few opportunities for a married woman to find work.
"What can I do, Sandra? How can I help you?"
Sandra sniffed, and took a final sip of her sherry. "I need a job, Miss, and I wondered if you knew of anyone who needed an office worker." She paused. "Well, anything really--cleaning, housekeeping. I'll do anything, but I don't want to waste the hours I put in at night school. I can do all sorts of secretarial work, you know, but I'll turn my hand to anything, because--" She paused again to take breath, as if the weight of her problems was pressing the air from her body. "Because I can't stay in the loft, not anymore. Reg wants another mechanic soon. That, and, well, as he says, it's not right, a widow living on her own above a garage. He's a good man, but, you know, I can see his point. He's said I can stay for another week, and I just . . . I just don't know what to do. I've been to most of the shops up and down Oxford Street and Regent Street, looking for work, and I've been applying for jobs, and--"
"Shhhh, it's all going to be all right, Sandra. Come on, let's get some hot soup into you, and I'll
tell you what I have in mind."
Over supper, Maisie asked Sandra if she would like to come to work for her, on a part-time basis to begin with. She explained that over the past few months, the task of keeping good records and filing away reports and invoices had fallen by the wayside. She did not share details of her own change in circumstance, though she was sure that Sandra would soon grasp the situation. She explained that she needed a private secretary, someone who could be trusted with confidential matters concerning the business, and who would also support Billy in the day-to-day running of the office. In addition, Maisie said that she would speak to her friend's husband; Douglas Partridge was a busy writer who was currently working on a new book and, due to the fact that he had lost an arm in the war--a loss that hampered his progress--according to his wife, he could do with a secretary. Perhaps they could work out a plan where Sandra worked for Maisie in the mornings, and then went on to assist Mr. Partridge in the afternoons. With two jobs, Sandra would have a reasonable income.
Maisie also extended an invitation for Sandra to live at her flat, moving her belongings back into the small bedroom that Maisie referred to as the "box room," which had been Sandra's room for some weeks before she was married.
Sandra began weeping again. "I hope you don't think I came here for you to do this for me, Miss Dobbs. I just thought, well, you know so many people, and you might hear of something."
"Don't worry, Sandra, it's all right, really it is. I am so very sad that your terrible misfortune brought you to me; however, I think I can help. I need some assistance in the office, and though I am sure you will get us sorted out very quickly, I also want to render our filing system easier to use. The files and notes go back many years, with a wealth of information that I draw upon to this day, so it is no small task. And fortunately, we have had more work coming in of late--just as Mr. Beale is about to leave for Kent and the hop-picking."
"I'm sure I'll do my best, Miss Dobbs."
Maisie refilled Sandra's soup bowl, and when she returned from the kitchen, she looked at Sandra directly. "And there's one more thing, Sandra. Your confidence extends to my visitors here at the flat, and to any aspect of my life to which you are privy." She paused. "Though, having said that, I will be away for some weeks, starting at the end of the month. I'll be back on occasion, and I'll keep in touch. You will have a means to contact me; we'll talk about all that when you begin work. Now, perhaps you'd like to move your belongings in on Saturday or Sunday--I'll be in Kent and you'll have some time to yourself. Come to the office on Monday at twelve--I don't generally arrive until later on Mondays--and we'll begin work. I should have more information on the other job by then."
Sandra swallowed, as if to digest everything Maisie had said. Her flushed cheeks and rounded, tired shoulders revealed a profound sense of relief at having found work and a roof over her head.
Oh, Miss, that poor girl. I remember him--Eric. Nice bloke, wasn't he? Didn't he work at Ebury Place?"
"Yes, he was a good lad. And if you remember, he came and mended the locks on the doors here, when we were broken into."
"Gaw, and you say the engine fell on him? Now, that's what I call a freak accident, something like that. Not that you don't hear about these things--look at that bloke who copped it when that horse bolted on Tottenham Court Road last week, frightened by one of those noisy lorries coming up alongside it. Mind you, this town's not made for horses anymore, is it? And that's why you've got people like that Eric working in what used to be stables, and poor Sandra now being thrown out of her only home."
Maisie nodded. She was used to Billy railing against the slightest injustice, and using those events to underline how much better life would be if he could only get his family away from the British Isles. Just a month previously, Maisie had commented on the surge in house building, in what people were increasingly referring to as "suburbs," streets of mock-Tudor houses boasting indoor bathrooms and "fitted" kitchens, with enough room to raise a family and close enough to both city and country to enjoy fresh air and town life. The spirit of Metro-land had spread from the north and west of London to the south and east, and Maisie believed she could help Billy and his family improve their living conditions sooner rather than later. Cheap down payments--just one pound--could be made, with additional payments until the property was ready for habitation. The houses seemed like a good investment--at the very least she could provide the down payment as some sort of bonus for Billy. The stumbling block proved to be her assistant's pride.
"I know it sounds all very nice, Miss, but you've done enough for us already. And to tell you the truth, Miss, this government has taken a lot from us blokes; in the war, and now in this slump. The very least the likes of me can do is put a roof over our families' heads."
Maisie had not pressed the point, but now wondered how it might be received if she were to invest in a house and rent it out--to Billy and his family. She would wait and broach the subject again, perhaps at a time when Billy was more open to accepting such an offer. When Billy and Doreen returned from Kent, they would doubtless be chagrined to be back in Shoreditch, with the added pressure of a baby soon to be born.
"I've invited Sandra to stay at my flat again, which will help her get on her feet. And it will be a weight off my mind to know that someone is at home when I am away; at least the place will be inhabited." She paused for a moment. "And I have some good news for us."
Billy looked up from his desk. "Oh--a new job come in?"
Maisie shook her head. "No, some help for us--she's looking for a job, so I offered her the position of secretary. It'll be part-time, as she'll also be working for Douglas Partridge. She can catch up with the filing, type up our invoices and reports properly, and generally keep us in some sort of order. When she's here and clients come to the office, you won't have to miss half the conversation because you're bringing in the tea--Sandra will be able to take care of those . . . those . . . housekeeping details. Plus, when I'm away, it will be company for you, someone to talk to in the office and provide clerical support when you're working on your cases."
Billy shrugged. "I thought we were doing quite well here, just the two of us. And it's only lately that the filing's piled up. And where will she sit?"
Maisie thought a stronger yet equally compassionate tack was needed. "This is a very spacious room, Billy. You could hold the Cup Final in here. We'll keep the table by the window for the case maps, and for our discussions when we're comparing notes on our work. We'll reposition those filing cabinets and the card file against the two walls either side of the bay window. Your desk could be placed at an angle to the wall--very nice with a view to the square--and if I move my desk slightly more towards the fireplace we can fit another desk here--thus the first person to greet visitors will be Sandra."
"We'll need a desk, Miss."
"Could you find a suitable desk for Sandra? Have it brought to the office 'cash on delivery' and I will settle the bill when it arrives."
"Right you are, Miss."
"And I've another job for you."
"Yes, Miss?"
Maisie picked up the index card that Billy had left on her desk. "This is where Eric worked--you remember, they always looked after my motor car. Sandra and Eric lived over the garage. I want you to take the MG over there and ask them to check a possible oil leak. There is no oil leak--well, no more than usual--but you can get chatting to the owner. Ask him about the business--you know how to slide it into the conversation. He has a relatively new customer who's been giving him a lot of work. Find out who it is. All I want is a name at this stage."
"Is this for Sandra?"
"In a way." Maisie sighed and leaned against the back of her chair. "I have a sense that, when she's settled and the problem of where to live and how to earn money is solved, her thoughts will turn inward, and she will begin to doubt that her husband's death was an accident."
"And you want to have proof that it was, so that she can forget it?"
"No." She c
hewed the inside of her lip for a second before continuing. "No, not exactly. Accidents happen, Billy. The people most likely to make mistakes are the ones who think they know, who consider themselves to be experts. But when she told me about how Eric died--let's just say I had a sense of doubt. I might be completely wrong, and I hope I am; but there are times when a piqued curiosity cannot be ignored, and this is one of them."
Chapter Three
In her application for the position of lecturer at the College of St. Francis, Maisie made much of her academic achievements. She mentioned her work for Maurice, but massaged details of her life over the past several years so that it might seem as if she had been afforded the time to pursue intellectual interests. And while awaiting a reply, she spent more time at The Dower House, immersing herself in the many books on philosophy in Maurice's library. Sitting late into the night, taking notes in a leather-bound book, Maisie at once felt as if she were thirteen years old again in the lowly position of maid in the Comptons' Ebury Place mansion. She had tiptoed into the library in the early hours of the morning several times each week, to work her way through the books and make up for the education she had been forced to abandon when her mother died. Upon being discovered by Lady Rowan Compton, she thought she would lose her job, but instead a new world opened up for her when Maurice Blanche asked to meet the young maid who dared to teach herself Latin in the small hours.
Now, as she sat at the desk, she felt an excitement: the same feeling she experienced as a girl surrounded by books that should have been out of bounds for her. She was about to embark on something completely new, a task that represented a risk, a gamble of sorts. Would it test her skills to the limit? Or would she rue the day she'd stopped the motor car on River Hill? Would she succeed in the eyes of her overseers, or would she fail? And how would that success or failure be measured? Maisie sat back in her chair, pulling a book towards her. She considered it serendipitous when she opened it to lines written by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe: "A man can stand anything, except a succession of ordinary days."