The interview was brief, though her first task had been to inform them of the presence of Robert Miller upstairs, adding that he was able to descend the stairs with help, as there was another wheelchair kept in a spacious hall cupboard. Before her interview, Maisie had returned to Miller and asked further questions. She had been curious to know why his sister had not accommodated him in a bedroom on the lower floor, given that he could just about get himself in and out of a wheelchair and was able to take care of his own basic needs—it seemed so much more work for the two women to have to help him upstairs every night.
“It was Rosie,” he said. “She wanted me to sleep in a room close to hers, so that if I needed help, she could attend to me, and if necessary Mrs. Bolton could help. And she said it was important to be normal, to come up to bed each night, and come downstairs during the day. Some days, though, I just don’t feel like it, stuck out here in the country with nothing to do, nothing to show for myself, and completely unable to hold myself to account in any way at all. It’s not as if I have friends to visit anymore—most of them were killed in the war, though one took his own life a few years ago. He’d told me it wasn’t worth living, and I sometimes ask myself if he wasn’t right.”
Maisie wondered if the man’s sister had not encouraged him to remain a patient, rather than helping him to become part of society once more. Other men with similar disabilities had found work—to be sure, it wasn’t always the work they wanted to do, but they had company and could feel they had done something with their days. Had Hartley-Davies indulged her own need to be of service to her brother, to care for a man wounded by war?
Of course she had to alert the police to the presence of Emma. As they entered she asked them not to go into the kitchen, explaining that a very upset Alsatian was in situ. When at last she was given leave to depart the house, she asked what might happen to the dog.
“Let’s have a look at the thing,” said Detective Inspector Wood.
“She’s a bit older, can’t see very well—though her owner thought otherwise—and her hearing appears to be fair for her age. I’ll warn you, she’s a big girl, and still has all her teeth.”
“That’s all I need, a big dog with big teeth.”
Maisie instructed the man to hold out his hand, and as they entered the kitchen she spoke with a firm but soft voice, taking care to touch the dog first to let her know she was there.
“Blimey, that one’s got a few years on her. Well, what with her owner being murdered, I might as well take her to be put down. She wouldn’t be the first dog to go to her maker since Sunday—after all, there’s air-raid precautions for animals, you know, and the government has said that it’s best to let your dog be put to sleep. We’ve had a lot of inquiries about it at the station, and the local dispensary for sick animals have had people lined up all day, bringing their dogs in to be destroyed.” He paused, looking down at Emma, who now lay at Maisie’s feet. “And what with that being a German breed, it should be put down, or someone might take a potshot at the thing. I remember in 1914, just before I enlisted—I was just a young copper then—this woman came into the station in a terrible state, blood all over her, carrying her dachshund. A mob had thrown stones at it in the street and pulled it away from her. Little scrap was all but dead, and we called the vet to take it the rest of the way. But that’s how it goes, when people have a temper on them and see a way of taking it out on something—or someone.” He gave a deep sigh. “I was shocked then, still being wet behind the ears, but after a while nothing takes your feet from under you anymore.”
“Detective Inspector,” said Maisie. “I can tell you that she’s not going to any veterinary to be put down, so I’d better take her with me.”
Now, at last home, gathering her bag and opening the door of the motor car, Maisie wondered if she had done the right thing regarding Emma. The dog stepped from the Alvis, raised her head, and sniffed the air.
“Emma, you are not the first dog I’ve brought home, so there might be a bit of trouble. Whatever you do, just try to get on with Jook—she is the number one around here.”
And the dog was not the only problem Maisie had taken on. She had left Robert Miller in the hands of the police, who planned to transport him to the local cottage hospital where he would be safe from falls and have his meals prepared and served—and he would be available for further questioning. However, if Lady Rowan agreed, as soon as he was allowed to do so by the police, he would arrive at Chelstone until other accommodation could be secured, and would stay at the manor. In Maisie’s estimation, making such an arrangement was the least she could do.
In truth, she had been grateful for the presence of Robert Miller, because discussion regarding his well-being and where he might live when he left the cottage hospital distracted the police, and drew attention away from herself. Her interview had been cursory, and she’d kept in mind something that Frankie once said when bargaining for a horse. He’d let the trader think he knew little about horses, and wove a story about once buying a bad one, interjecting, with an air of innocence, observations that could knock a little more off the price every time he pointed at this or that part of the horse. When he at last held out his hand to the trader, shaking on the price he’d wanted to pay in the first place, he winked at his young daughter. “It’s often wise to let people think you know a lot less than you do,” he’d said as he led the horse back to its stabling under the dry arches of Waterloo Bridge.
“Sorry I’m late,” said Maisie, coming into the kitchen. “Oh, Anna, shouldn’t you be in bed by now?”
Anna said nothing, but Maisie thought she saw the hint of a smile on her face: a curl at the side of the mouth, and eyes that seemed less dull. The child continued to sip hot milk from a red china mug. Her small case was on the chair by her side, along with her gas mask.
Brenda lifted her chin towards the door, indicating she wanted to speak to Maisie out of earshot of the child, though they remained in the kitchen.
“We expected you earlier, so we told her she could stay up until you came home—we thought it would cheer her up.” Brenda kept her voice low. “As soon as she walked in from school, she went looking for you—she never said, but we knew because she went straight for the library and then the conservatory, and it’s only ever been you and Dr. Blanche who used those rooms.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Brenda. I wasn’t able to telephone you, but—”
“Oh, my—I’ve only just noticed it! Whatever have you brought home?” Brenda started, placing a hand on her chest. “That’s a very big dog!”
Maisie began to explain, watching Anna as she recounted the story to Brenda—though she omitted to reveal the true circumstances of Emma’s predicament, only saying her owner was troubled and therefore unable to care for the dog.
Anna had slipped from her chair and approached the dog, not gingerly, but as if she already understood the respect required to offer friendship to an animal. She was only a little taller than the dog’s head, but she put her hand up to stroke the animal, who turned and licked the child’s ear.
“There’s still a little light to the day, Anna. Shall we take her for a quick walk down to the paddocks, let her know where she is?”
“Yes, and you’ll have a chance to tell your father you’ve brought back another stray. He’ll be back soon with Jook,” added Brenda.
Anna reached for the lead, which Maisie relinquished. And as Maisie opened the kitchen door, she exchanged glances with Brenda and nodded towards Anna’s small case, which she appeared to have forgotten as soon as Emma entered the house.
The child was silent as they walked along the gravel path down to the paddocks in the grainy late-evening light. Soon Maisie saw her father in the distance, walking towards them with Jook by his side. She waved out, and when Frankie saw she had a dog with her, he called out, instructing Anna to release the lead and just let the dogs get to know each other.
“They’re both old girls,” said Frankie, coming alongside Maisie and A
nna. “And while I always say it’s a fight between two bitches that will go to the death, I think these two will be all right—they’ll sort themselves out. And you can tell me what that big one is doing here.”
By the time they reached the back door of the kitchen, Maisie had recounted the gist of the story, leaving out the more confidential aspects of events that led to her bringing the Alsatian home. Anna walked ahead, her hand laid upon Emma’s withers, while Jook remained between Frankie and Maisie.
Later, after Anna had finished her now-cool milk and gathered her case, Maisie took her upstairs to her room. She stepped outside while Anna changed into her pajamas—already she understood the girl’s need for privacy—then returned to tuck in the bedclothes. She moved to leave the room, switching off the light as she began to draw the door closed.
“Emma.” The word was uttered in a whisper, to herself. “I love Emma.”
Maisie knew it was a pronouncement. Emma would be her dog. And indeed it was outside Anna’s room that Emma slept that night, despite protestations from Brenda, who said it was bad enough having a dog in the kitchen, let alone two, and now one of them shedding hair all over the upstairs carpet.
Maisie came back into the kitchen, smiling, and was about to speak when she saw Brenda and Frankie exchange glances.
“What is it?” said Maisie.
“Let’s all sit down,” said Brenda. “I’ve made a pot of tea.”
Frankie sat at the head of the scrubbed thick wooden table, with Maisie and Brenda flanking him. He spoke first. “Brenda had a look in the girl’s case—it worked, you taking her for a walk with that dog. Tell her, Bren.”
“There was a change of underclothes in there, nicely folded—a couple pair of knickers and two liberty bodices—and two pair of white socks. She had another dress—looked like it had been run up out of curtaining. But there was no room for a winter coat or anything like that.”
“Any identification?”
Brenda shook her head. “Nothing to speak of. Except this.” She pushed a piece of paper towards Maisie.
“Oh dear, I hope she doesn’t notice it’s missing.”
“She might not have even known it was there. Tucked down in the pocket—I almost missed it.”
Maisie took the paper. The handwriting was in pencil, and difficult to read—the sheet of paper was about three by four inches and had been folded several times, so it seemed no bigger than a sweet wrapper.
“‘My name is Anna. I come from London. I will be five years old on October 21st. I can read and write and I can clean myself. I can be a help in the house, and I know how to wash my clothes. I’m a good girl.’”
“Needle in a haystack,” said Brenda.
Maisie rubbed her forehead. “I just don’t understand—it’s as if she was abandoned. No one could possibly leave a child to her own devices.”
“Plenty have, love. Five years of age was always considered old enough to get on and take care of yourself, and she’s no exception. P’raps she was looked after by someone—her mum, or an aunt, or even a father who might have been crippled in the war—and had to do for herself without much help.”
“The handwriting is a bit shaky, as if the note were written by someone who had poor dexterity,” said Maisie. “It could have been someone elderly—or ill.”
“We’ve got to report it to the billeting officer in any case,” said Brenda. “It might give them a clue to who she is, and now they have a birth date to get on with. That’ll help.”
Maisie nodded, and turned away.
Later, in the library, Maisie sat for an hour, a notebook on her lap. She heard Frankie and Brenda climb the stairs, their voices low as they made their way to bed. They now slept in Maisie’s room, though for a time each day they returned to their own bungalow in the village, and a couple of evenings a week a girl came up from the manor to look after the children, allowing Frankie and Brenda to remain at home—though as Brenda pointed out, Maisie’s father had taken to being at the manor again, and setting jobs for the boys after school at the week’s end. A bed had been set up in the library for Maisie.
The library had not changed since Maurice was alive, which was a comfort to Maisie, as she leaned back in his leather armchair, remembering days past when she would sit in the wing chair opposite his, perhaps sipping a glass of sherry as he savored a measure or two of single malt whisky. She could just about detect the lingering aroma of his pipe tobacco, mixed with the fragrance of the lavender-and-beeswax polish Brenda used on the table. How many hours had she spent in this room, talking to Maurice, answering his questions, listening to him urge her to heed the voice that counseled her from within? They had discussed so many cases, pulling apart testimonies, passing postmortem reports back and forth, Maurice encouraging her to look at each word, each phrase, every aspect of evidence from a different perspective. “Even this room will seem different from each corner—you must make your mind look through a new lens every time you read. And to do that, Maisie, you have to move—go to another room, step out on a walk, or drive to a place fresh to you. Move yourself, and you move your mind. Look at the evidence from different angles.”
But this time it was Frankie’s voice that echoed in her mind. It was clear he suspected she might be becoming just a little too fond of Anna. She had seen the way he watched her when Anna was present, as if he were gauging the effect of the child’s presence upon her. She had known the time would come when her father would have something to say if he found reason for concern—and it had come that evening, after they’d discussed what could be done to find Anna’s family. “Those evacuees are our own refugees, Maisie, and refugees go home,” he’d said. “I saw it in the war—foreigners came over, needing help, so our people did their best for them. They opened their homes and even built houses for the refugees. But when the war was over, they wanted them out, back to their own country, their own towns, and their own people. You see love, it’s not easy for them, the refugees—because people can turn on a pin. And they especially turn if they think an outsider is doing better than them.”
She wondered if someone had turned on a pin to take the lives of Frederick Addens and Albert Durant, someone who had then murdered Rosemary Hartley-Davies and her housekeeper. And she wondered again about the woman who cared for refugees and for a wounded brother at home—what had she known that had led to her death? Or was it just that she was acquainted with the killer?
Chapter 9
Billy was reading the newspaper when Maisie arrived at the office on Monday morning. “Morning, Billy,” she said, as she hung her gas mask on a hook behind the door, Billy folded the paper and put it to one side. The country had been at war for one week.
“How’re them little nippers getting along down there?” he asked, coming to his feet. He reached for his notebook, ready for their customary meeting to talk about cases in hand and new business.
“Oh, all right, though there have been some ups and downs. I think there was a little panicking last week, which is why Brenda called me down early. But everything’s on an even keel now. My father and Brenda are staying at the Dower House to oversee the children, though they get back to their bungalow a couple of days a week and during the day while the children are at school—Lady Rowan has sent up one of her staff to lend a hand.” She shook her head. “It’s a lot for people their age, but they want to help, so they’re happy to move for a while.” She turned to Sandra. “How are you, Sandra?”
“Quite all right, thank you. I’ve laid out the case map, and I’ve notes on the other cases ready for us. We’re closing up two today, so the invoices are ready for you to check.”
“That’s good. And I’ve a new case too.”
“What’s that, miss?” asked Billy.
“A lost child, I suppose you could say. And another murder—well, two, to be exact. But I must make one telephone call before we start. Just give me a minute or two.”
Maisie stepped through to her office, closing the concertina door behi
nd her. She knew that as the door closed, Billy and Sandra would look at each other, raise their eyebrows, and then speculate in a whisper as to what might be happening with what they were now calling “the refugee case.”
She dialed the number she had been given for Dr. Francesca Thomas.
“Yes?” It was a brief one-word invitation to speak. No number recited, no greeting. Just “Yes.”
“Dr. Thomas. Maisie Dobbs. Do you have a few moments?”
“Of course. Is there news?”
“I have news, but not the sort you might want to hear. There has been another murder—two victims—and the circumstances point to a link with the deaths of Frederick Addens and Albert Durant. Let me explain.”
Maisie recounted the events following her visit to Rosemary Hartley-Davies’ home in Sussex. She described the work Hartley-Davies had undertaken during the war, and her life since then, which—as far as Maisie knew—had been in the service of her severely wounded brother.
“Why do you think she was killed?” asked Thomas.
“I think it’s pretty clear, Francesca.” As she spoke, Maisie realized she had used the other woman’s Christian name several times of late, and conceded it still felt as if she were taking a liberty. Even when Thomas referred to her simply as “Maisie,” she had in reply always been respectful of her professional status. A doctorate was, after all, not an easy accomplishment for a woman. “I believe she was killed because she knew something. She stalled when she found out why I was there, and who the dead men were—she was obviously shocked by the revelation, and played for time in asking me to return the following day. Whilst it would not have surprised me if she had left the premises, I had not expected her to be murdered alongside her housekeeper in the time between my leaving and returning some twenty-four hours later.”