They finished their tea in an almost whispered quiet, with Maisie steering the conversation to Joe’s childhood, so that they might remember their son as he was, and not how they might imagine him to have been at the point of his death. Maisie and Billy took their leave, receiving thanks from the pub landlord and his wife, and Maisie in turn asked them to say goodbye to Vivian, and to tell her that she was being held in their thoughts.
Billy did not speak until they reached the front door leading up to the office, whereupon he turned to look around at the square.
“What is it, Billy? What do you want to say?” asked Maisie.
“All right, it’s like this: the carpet is an inch thick on those stairs, and them cups and saucers—and the teapot, sugar bowl and jug—were bone china. Matching, at that. And did you see the watch on Phil’s wrist? All very nice.”
Maisie waited, for she knew Billy had more to get off his chest.
“I feel really, really bad for them, miss, because that Joe was a young diamond of a lad—and Viv is a good girl, even if she does have a bit of the Sarah Bernhardts about her. But I still think something’s not right, and I know where to start.”
“The older son?”
Billy nodded.
“Good—because I was going to ask you to make a point of going over to see him. He works in Sydenham—easy to get to on your way home, isn’t it?”
“Just a bit out of my way, but consider it as good as done,” said Billy.
“One thing though,” added Maisie. “Remember he’s grieving too—and I meant what I said—everyone’s different. We’ve both seen it before—when Brenda received bad news about her sister, she went out and cleaned all the windows like a demon. That could be Joe’s older brother—work could be balm for his aching soul. And it wouldn’t surprise me if his sister’s dramatic bent didn’t irritate him a bit.”
“Would me,” said Billy.
“So, go easy on him.”
“You still think something’s amiss though, don’t you?”
“I do,” said Maisie. “But I don’t want to scare anyone either. Now, I must be getting along or I’ll miss my train.”
“One more thing, miss—”
“Yes?”
“What shall we do about that bloke in the black motor car over there?”
Maisie reached into her handbag for her keys. “I thought I’d wait to see which one of us he follows—and if it’s you, Billy, I want you to go straight home. Your family has too much worry to risk any more problems at the moment.”
From the floor-to-ceiling windows at the front of the office, Maisie watched the vehicle on the other side of the square, and sighed. Yes, she was tempted to end her own speculation, walk across to Conway Street and rap on the window. But at the same time she too had much to lose. That thought reminded her of an overdue telephone call she had promised to make. She turned away from the window, and just as she was about to reach for the receiver, the telephone began to ring. She picked up the black Bakelite receiver and recited the number.
“Is that Miss Maisie Dobbs . . . um, is she there?” The voice on the line was that of a young woman, a voice lacking the tone of maturity, but with more resonance than that of a schoolgirl. Maisie would have put her at twenty-one or twenty-two years of age. “I’d like to speak to her, please.”
“Yes, this is Maisie Dobbs. Who’s speaking?”
“Oh at last! I’ve reached you—I thought it would go on ringing for ages, and I have so little time when I can get to the telephone box. My name’s Sylvia Preston. Leading Aircraftswoman Preston, WAAF. You should have received a message I’d called before.”
“Yes, I did, Miss Preston, but I thought it best not to call back as I have no idea of your shift times.”
“I’m glad you didn’t after that first telephone call—that nosey mare of a landlady can’t keep anything to herself, and she’s half cut most of the time. I’m happy to have moved out, though I sometimes wonder if I haven’t gone from the fat into the fire.”
“Oh dear—” said Maisie.
“It’s all right really, this one’s harmless—to a point. But about Joey Coombes—oh heck—” Maisie heard the woman exclaim when the pips sounded, though she was soon back on the line having inserted more coins to continue the call.
“I can telephone you back,” said Maisie. “Give me your number.”
Sylvia Preston read out the number and hung up. Maisie dialed, and heard one ring before the WAAF answered.
“Yes, thank you.” She sounded breathless.
“Are you all right?” asked Maisie. “You’re not in any danger?”
“I’m in danger every day—but not the sort you mean.” The young woman gave a half-laugh, almost a snort. “I ran to get to the telephone, and now I’m trying not to breathe in for the terrible smell in here. I don’t know why people have to do some of the things they do in a telephone box. Anyway, let me tell you what I think you should know.”
“Go on,” said Maisie.
“I heard you talking to the landlady when you came down. She didn’t quite tell you everything. There were two men came to see Joe—both of them turned out very well indeed, looking like they were in the pictures. Not in uniform—but not everyone is, though they both looked like they should be. One was about my age, I would imagine—twenty-one, twenty-two, something like that. And the other was older, thirties—he reminded me of my brother who’s thirty-six . . . I know, don’t ask about the age difference between us. I reckon my mum kept away from my dad for fifteen years after the terrible time she had when my brother was born!”
Maisie smiled, then prompted Preston. “But there must have been something a bit off, for you to notice them—what didn’t you like?”
“I didn’t like the way they spoke to him. I couldn’t hear the words, but as they walked a little way down the road, I didn’t like the tone—I could hear them, friendly enough first of all—they called him ‘Joe,’ so they knew him—well, the younger one did. The other one was more . . . more officious, I would say. Nice enough, handing out the ciggies—Joe shook his head, he was a good boy, really he was. Shouldn’t have been away from home, I reckon. Then I couldn’t hear anything, but I could see, and Joe just kept shaking his head, and then the younger one got him by the arm—you know, grabbed his upper arm—and turned toward him. I don’t know what he said, but it looked like Joe was scared—he held his head down, as if he didn’t want to look up into their faces.”
“Did he go off with them?”
“No, he didn’t. They had a motor car though—I saw them get into it. But here’s what happened—another one of the painters, Freddie Mayes, came along in the van, and stopped alongside them. I can’t be sure, but I think he knew them. Well, he knew the older one. The younger man was in the black motor car already. And Joe got into the van, as if it had been a life raft come to save him. I couldn’t make out his face, but you can see these things by the way people move—he clambered in that van sharpish.”
“Then?” promoted Maisie.
“Then the van drove off, and so did the motor car—the motor went out on Winchester Road, and the van in another direction—I don’t know which airfield they were at that day.” There was a pause on the line, before Preston continued. “That’s about it, Miss Dobbs. As I said, our illustrious landlady didn’t tell you quite everything.”
“Thank you, Miss Preston,” said Maisie. “I appreciate you getting in touch—very much indeed.”
“Well, I had to—we all liked Joe, us girls. He took our teasing in good heart, but he was a good boy.” She paused, and Maisie thought she heard her begin to weep.
“Are you all right, Sylvia?”
“I just think it’s terrible—that’s he’s missing, that he’s gone off somewhere. Probably to get away from those blokes, if I know anything. Do you think you’ll find him?”
Maisie drew breath and closed her eyes. Giving news of a death was never straightforward, the words caught in her heart and in her throat
. “I’m so sorry, Sylvia. Joe’s body was found a few days ago—he’s dead, I’m afraid.”
There was silence on the line, after several seconds punctuated by a sniff, and a cough. “It wasn’t an accident, was it?” said Preston, her words stumbling out as she sobbed. “I tell you, Joe was scared, Miss Dobbs—I don’t know what he was scared of, but he had fear written all over him during that last week I saw him.”
“Would you know those men again?” asked Maisie.
“The younger one, probably. But I know how easy it is to make mistakes, so I would have to be careful.”
“You’re to be commended for your reticence, Sylvia, and—”
Before Maisie could say more, Preston broke in. “I’ve just had enough of death and bodies, really I have.”
“What do you mean?”
“My job—look, sorry, I’m not supposed to talk about it.”
“I can be trusted—if you want to get something off your chest.”
Silence again, and more sniffing. “I’m a driver, Miss Dobbs. They taught me to drive and I thought I would be driving the officers up and down to London, and out to other airfields, that sort of thing. But you know what I do? I drive an ambulance.”
“An ambulance? For practice drills?”
“I suppose you could say that, but the death is real.”
“You’re going to have to explain that to me, Sylvia—I’m not quite following you.”
“They’re training the army to parachute—all these boys coming down in big lorries so they can practice parachuting, for taking on the Germans over there. I don’t know when they think they’re going to do that, what with everyone talking about an invasion. But the army has already started them practicing at their barracks, jumping off walls, so they know how to land. Then they bring them here to jump from aircraft. They go up over Salisbury Plain, that’s one place. We wait in the ambulances as they come down. We don’t pick up many injured—if you land wrong, you’re dead, easy as that. If I get one with a sprained ankle or a broken leg, or a collarbone, or what have you, I feel as if I’ve been let off light. Most of the time I’m with another girl loading up dead lads whose legs have gone right up through their bodies, or they’re completely smashed up. That’s my job. One time I had to drive back across Salisbury Plain in the dark, on my own, with six dead boys in the back of my ambulance, so no one would see, no one would know. And I tell you, I don’t think aeroplanes were invented for people to suddenly get up off their seat and jump out of a door. But that’s me.”
“I am so very sorry, Sylvia,” said Maisie. “I had no idea.”
“Oh, no one has any idea. And to think I was pleased to be a driver—working outside, on the move, and none of this stuck indoors doing meteorology or typing up reports for the brass. Now I drive a death wagon—that’s how it feels.” She paused, drawing breath before continuing. “You won’t tell anyone, will you?”
“I promise, Sylvia.”
“Right. I’ve got to go now.”
“Thank you very—” Maisie was expressing gratitude to the continuous hum of the disconnected call.
When she had raised her head from her hands, with the image of young women lifting the terribly damaged bodies of equally young men still in her mind’s eye, Maisie reached for the telephone receiver and dialed a number she knew by heart. A man answered, a clerk to the solicitor she was seeking.
“Hello, Anthony—is Mr. Klein there, please?”
“Yes, Your Ladyship—I will tell him you’re waiting. One moment, please.”
There was silence on the line, and then a series of clicks before the measured tones of her solicitor echoed down the line.
“Maisie. How lovely to hear from you—it’s about time we had a chat about your affairs. I’m afraid, what with the war, I am concerned with regard to the properties in France, however—”
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Klein—it’s so impolite of me to interrupt, but I would like to speak to you about Anna.”
“Ah, yes. I have held back, but if you wish, I will take your instructions to find a good family for her.”
“Mr. Klein—I . . . I . . .” She felt herself falter. “Mr. Klein, I think I . . .”
“We’d better meet, Maisie. I believe I understand completely. Are you about to leave town, or can you come to my office?”
“I’m catching a later train today. I daresay Anna is resting in any case—she has measles.”
“Is she recovering?”
“I’m assured she is on the mend.”
“Good—can you be here within the hour?”
“I’m leaving now.”
“Excellent—I will have a series of papers for you to go over, and a list of documents required. Thank goodness the law hasn’t changed—it was on the books you know, but the war got in the way. Anyway, we can make a start.”
“Thank you, Mr. Klein.”
“I told you long ago, Maisie—you may call me Bernard.”
“Indeed—but old habits die hard.”
The black motor car was still parked on Conway Street, though upon closer inspection, Maisie realized it wasn’t completely black, but had a dark bottle green contrasting paint along the sides. She turned from the front window and crossed the office to the back window overlooking the yard below. There was a tall but narrow gate forming a rear exit to the alley, though probably not used—terra-cotta pots had been placed in front, filled with flowering plants. She gathered her handbag and briefcase, locked the door as she departed the office, and made her way down the stairs. But instead of leaving by the front door, she turned left at the end of the staircase and stepped across to a plain door with no number or name alongside. With her knuckle she rapped on the paneled door. There was no answer. She closed her eyes, whispering, “Please come. Please come.” She rapped again. And again. It was as she turned to leave that she heard the door being unlocked and a chain drawn back.
The man before her was, she thought, a few years older than herself. Of taller than average height, he wore dark trousers, a clean white collarless shirt and an unbuttoned waistcoat. He leaned on a walking stick, and when she looked into his face, she saw a scar running from his left cheekbone, down to an uneven jaw. At one glance, it was as if she knew everything about him.
“What do you want?” asked the man.
Maisie did not look away when her eyes met his. “My name is Maisie Dobbs. I work in the office above, and I wonder—would you be so kind as to allow me to leave by your back gate? I suppose it leads into the alley. Am I right? I’ll set the plants aside, and will move them back again when I return, but I would be very much obliged if you could help me.”
The man looked at her for a period of time—perhaps only a second or two, though it seemed as if he would never respond to her request.
He inclined his head, stepped back and held out his hand for her to enter. “Of course. Please, come in. And I apologize for taking so long to answer your knock. I usually use the entrance at the front, so was taken aback to hear someone at this door. Follow me.”
The man led the way from the narrow landing and two short flights of stairs into a sitting room which she thought was probably also the bedroom. He proceeded through to a scullery, and out into the yard. She was still surprised by the neat order of the flat when she emerged into the small yard, and realized her view from above did not do justice to the abundance of color the man had created.
“Oh, my—this is just beautiful. So small, and so perfect, Mr.—forgive me, I don’t know your name.”
“I never told you.” He held out his hand. “Walter Miles.”
“Thank you, Mr. Miles.” Maisie took the outstretched hand and returned his smile.
“Come on—let’s get you on your way.” Miles stepped across the flagstones and with Maisie’s assistance began to move terra-cotta pots away from the gate. “The bolt is a bit rusty, but I’ve moved it before.” He pulled on the bolt and after some effort, it gave, shooting back and releasing the gate, which he d
rew back and held open.
“I can’t thank you enough,” said Maisie.
“It was my pleasure, Miss Dobbs. The motor car has been out there for hours now, so be on your way before he realizes you’ve left and starts tootling down Tottenham Court Road looking for you.”
Maisie was about to open her mouth, when the man shook his head. “Go now.”
And as she ran down the alley and out onto Tottenham Court Road toward Goodge Street Station, Maisie could not help but wonder about Walter Miles. She had never seen him before, never noticed him coming or going—in fact, she assumed an elderly lady lived in the downstairs flat. Yet there was something familiar about him. And she knew very well the cause of his disfigurement—wherever she went in this time of war, there was always a reminder of the last, even if it was only the sight of Billy wincing as he stood up from his desk. She reflected upon her conversation with Sylvia Preston, and the terrible job assigned to her. And she wondered how another generation of men and women in years to come would have to fight a different battle every single day—a battle against a time that would not fail to mark them, inside and out, and would come back to haunt them at moments when they least expected it. But now there was one victim of the war she would do her level best to ensure would have only joyful memories to look back upon in the years to come. After leaving the underground station at Holborn, she all but ran to the offices of Bernard Klein.
Chapter 8
Maisie arrived at Chelstone later than she had hoped on Friday—her train pulled into the sidings several times to allow other trains to pass, and the journey was longer than usual, with a change at Paddock Wood instead of Tonbridge. She asked a station guard why there was a diversion, and was informed it was due to “extra trains coming up from the coast.”
Maisie’s father and stepmother were sitting at the kitchen table when Maisie entered the house.
“Maisie, did you walk all the way from the station? You should have said—I would have met you, walked back with you.”
“Not to worry, Dad.” She kissed him on the cheek, moving to her stepmother’s side for the same greeting. “How’s Anna? Is she feeling better?”